Staff Sgt. Jeffery Hartley had traveled from his combat outpost to Forward Operating Base Rustimiyah to mourn a fellow soldier, killed days earlier by a roadside bomb.

Such is not uncommon for the soldiers of the close-knit 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team.

Many of those who attended the memorial service for Sgt. Darren Dhanoolal did not know him personally.

But he was a member of the Sledgehammer Brigade.

Enough said.

Hartley, a staff sergeant with the 1st Battalion, 10th Field Artillery, was leading his platoon back to Combat Outpost Salie following the memorial service when his vehicle hit a roadside bomb.

Hartley, one of three soldiers in his vehicle, was killed.

News of Hartley's April 8 death was made public a couple of days later. But the details surrounding the trip to the memorial service were not released until much later.

Hartley, of Eagle Lake, Texas, was no stranger to FortBenning. He had served three deployments with the 3rd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment before joining the 1-10 and deploying twice more in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom with the "Rock Support" battalion.

"He simply was one of the finest leaders I have ever known," said Capt. Drew Staples, commander of Headquarters Battery. "He combined a sense of mission with a human touch that will be hard-pressed to ever be duplicated."

Sunday, April 27, 2008

“Bummer. Looks like there won't be any help from the rain godstonight. For once. Let's see if the Air Force willgive us a little help,” I told myself followed by ashort sigh.

But I had the feeling. . . The feeling that I wasn't going to get out of this one. I was going to actually earn that extra hundred and fifty dollars Iget paid each month. I closed my laptop, grabbed mykeys and headed for work. They had given us a latecall of noon, seeing as I most likely wouldnot get off work until tomorrow morning.

When I got to the company, I walked up the ramp removing my maroon beret and was greeted by Sgt. Anderson at the door. He stopped and looked at me and without a word we bothlooked at each other and began shaking our heads.

A staff sergeant was standing at his locker changing intothe duty uniform.

“Grab the cherries (privates) and get ready forweapons draw.”

“Roger sa’arnt. Already on it.”

"Shira, Bulger, let's go fuckers, weapons draw five minutes."

Both jumped to their feet and headed for the arms room.

“Uh, specialist?” Shira said in his small voice and going to parade rest.

“What's up guy?”

“Uh, will I be jumping the SAW (machine gun) tonight?”

“Yeah,” I replied laughing. “Oh, and make sure youdraw a modified weapons case.”

He cracked half a smile that clearly said “dammit!” the only way aprivate can.

“Roger.”

At once we were first in line at the arms room so the draw wentquickly which is rare. With our weapons and night vision drawn, we went to our taskdouble checking the rigging on our parachute drop bagsas well as checking our night vision and changingbatteries as needed.

“ALL RIGHT CHALK LEADERS, GET THEM MOVING OVER TOFALCON FIELD FOR INITIAL MANIFEST!” yelled the firstsergeant from his office.

Generally that's where things start to get interesting. Severalhundred men all gaggled around. . .the phrase too manychiefs and not enough Indians comes to mind.

As NCOs try to make sense of it all and get everyone dividedinto the right birds and the right order. For acombat equipped jump, they do what they call combatcross loading. Basically mix you in with a bunch ofguys you don't know from other units. That way youhave no idea whether or not they are going to freak outin the air. At least that's what I think they say, so ifin the “real thing” a bird gets shot down a wholeunit wont be lost.

Jump masters begin combing the lines inspecting helmets and checking dog tags. Forsome reason you cannot jump without you dog tags. Ithink they help with aerodynamics during the free fallportion. . . not really I made that up.

At that point, there were still rain clouds moving inand out and the overall thinking was that we weren'tgoing to jump 'cause of the weather. I knew better.For some reason I think I'm the only one who checks theweather. But I didn't try to tell them otherwise. Theyseem happier when they have hope.

I guess I should explain that the majority of America's paratroopershate to jump out of airplanes. It's not atall like sky diving. Oh no, it's much more dangerous.Between 60 and 80 some odd paratroopers exit two doorsin an average of thirty seconds. There is certainly along list of things that can go wrong, from becominga towed jumper (I'll let your imagination figure thatone out), to mid-air entanglements (which happens quiteoften), to partial or total malfunctions of your mainparachute (nice way of saying your chute doesn'topen), and to the fact that you have no way of reallycontrolling where you go, so you are at the mercy ofthe wind.

I will say, most don't care aboutthe jumping out part, it's the landing really. Hittingthe ground at 18 to 22 feet per second, and a lateralspeed of whatever wind gust has you, never feels verygood. Broken legs, ankles, heads are common place. ButI digress.

Eventually we made our way over to Pope Air Force Baseto a place called Green Ramp. It's basically a line ofwarehouses and bays along the flight line with rowafter row of strange looking wooden benches that are'specially made so that they are only comfortable tosit on when you are wearing a parachute.

We waited for hours before actually dawning our parachutes. Myshoulder hurt just thinking about it. The T-10-Deltaparachute weighs around 60 pounds alone. Then strapon combat equipment and you're looking at about a hundredpounds all together rested on two torturous shoulderstraps. The longer you're in the harness, the more youwant to jump out the door just so when you hit theground you can take the damn thing off.

Now in the chutes and hating life, the jump mastershaving done their final inspections, thestarting of jet engines introduces adrenalin into theblood stream. The only two guys from my platoon in mychalk was Shira and another young private namedMyamoto, both doing the airborne infantry man thing. . .they were both asleep. It's funny to me that all theseguys getting ready to exit an aircraft at over ahundred miles an hour and eight hundred feet above theground can sleep. Heads slumped down in front restingon their reserve parachutes.

Everyone wakes up when they open the giant metal doors to the flightline. . .front row seating over looking a row of fourC-17 massive cargo jets, sleek and very impressive withrear ramps down, bright white lights shining out fromwithin.

I turned to the two guys, “Hey, when you hit the ground come to me and we willmove out to the assembly area together.”

“Roger, specialist.”

“You know what to do if you can't find me? Findthe center line dirt road and follow the direction ofthe planes. The company assembly point should be oncorner of the field.”

“Roger, specialist.”

Then it comes.

“CHALK TWO ON YOUR FEET!”

With a sigh, I struggle to my feet. With the parachute drop bag strapped aroundyour legs in the front, it's nearly impossible to walk. So,of course, the Air Force parks their birds like a mileaway, which makes for a very awkward and painfulwalk.

C-17s look, well, like a space ship inside. Veryhigh tech and powerful birds with much more room insidethan C130s. Those Vietnam era birds are louder on theinside than the outside and smell of oil and exhaustand often break down. It's so tight in there that whenthe jump masters have to get to the front of theaircraft, they literally walk on you.

Less than five minutes in our cargo net seats andguys are again passing out left and right. Many timesthe pilots need flight hours so we load up and “racetrack” for several hours. Was not to be the casetonight. We had been pushed back already for whateverreason so it was to be a about an hour flight to adrop zone five minutes away. When the ramp goes upthe white lights turn off and the red lights come on.Really sets the mood, I'll tell ya. A short taxi and ahard throttle up and we are airborne.The adrenalin really starts going when the twojump masters near the tail begin yelling and givinghand and arm signals.

Five minutes later comes, “TEN MINUTES!. . .GET READY!”Each time the jumpers turn to the front and repeat.

“OUTBOARD JUMPERS STAND UP!” All the jumpers on theoutboard side of the aircraft stand up folding up theircargo net seats.

“INBOARD JUMPERS STAND UP!” The jumpers alongthe center of the bird move over the anchor linecable, two steel cables strung from front to backalong the side of the aircraft about a foot apart fromeach other.

“HOOK UP!”

I grab the long yellow chord thats drapedover my shoulder and hook it to the cable above myhead.

“CHECK STATIC LINE!”

I trace the line from the cable down over my shoulder making sure it hasn't gone underthe riser or under my arm. Then reach forward andtrace the line on the guy in front of me from hisshoulder down ensuring the same for him. Then slaphim on the shoulder letting him know he is good assomeone does the same for me.

“CHECK EQUIPMENT!”

Trace my helmet strap, tighteningit once more and go down ensuring each snap hook onthe harness is secure. Then from the back its passedto the front. Someone slaps me on the ass and yells“OKAY!” I do the same to the man in front. When itgets to the number one jumper he yells, “ALL OKAYJUMP MASTER!”

It's about that time that they open the doors and thewind rips around the cabin as the four screaming jetengines reach your ears. Guys start screaming andyelling muffled “WHOO!” and “YEAHS!”

I turned to the guy standing next to me and yelled in his ear, “YOUKNOW, IT'S TIMES LIKE THESE THAT I CAN'T HELP BUT WONDERABOUT ALL THE DECISIONS I'VE MADE IN MY LIFE THAT HAVELED ME TO THIS POINT!” He laughs and shakes his head.

All the noise and commotion seem confusing but its kindof a strange ballet. The jump master known as thesafety literally sticks his head out the door andlooks for the approaching drop zone. When he seesthat he's two thousand meters away, he gives the signal and thejump masters yell, “ONE MINUTE. . .STAND BY!”

The number one jumper turns and stands in front of the door. That to mewould be the worst job and I refuse to do it. I can jumpbecause I don't think about it, I just do it. Thenumber one jumper stands there for an eternity lookingout into the world from a high performance aircraft.Then the amber light comes on and the jump mastersgive the second to last command.

“THIRTY SECONDS!”

Blink hard, breathe deep and focus. Body and mind ready.

And then it happens. The little amber light by the door turns green.

“GREEN LIGHT, GO! GREEN LIGHT, GO! GREEN LIGHTGO!. . .”

One by one, each jumper hands off the staticline to the safety turns and runs into the darknessand disappears.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

"A Pew Research Center poll earlier this month found that 14 percent of Americans considered Iraq the news story of most interest -- less than half the 32 percent hooked on the presidential campaign and barely more than the 11 percent hooked on the raid of a polygamist compound in Texas."

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Mark gave us this video last summer when he was on leave. I watched it over and over again while he was gone and was really hoping that some day I could post it. Thanks to YouTube, I can. Thanks to first platoon, Bravo Company. This beats the Pepsi commercial any day. SPC Mark is in there a couple of times. It was a Godsend to us through the darkest of days. SGT Schilling, who made the video, is a very talented young man.

A lot has been written about the U.S. Army having to grant more waivers to let new soldiers in the all volunteer force. NBC was particularly graphic last night about the new recruits: drug problems, never graduated from high school, felony convictions. I cringe thinking that these are the guys that Mark will be taking into Iraq on his next deployment.

That said, two of my youngest son's friends have signed up for the Army. They are a pair of 19-year-olds with nothing but time on their hands and no sense of the future. They've been hanging around the house the last few days. They already have their GI haircuts and their voices from afar (I can't bring myself to talk to them) are giddy with the sense of an upcoming adventure. Both are high school graduates, so no waiver there. Probably some family issues though.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Yesterday, after our alpha male paratrooper, home on a pass, had secured the TV remote and the couch and our 16-year-old son had turned our backyard into a testosterone-filled Spring Break Central, Gayle and I decided to take a break and head to St. Augustine.

It was an extraordinary spring day and we ended up at the St. Augustine Alligator Farm. Most visitors from out of state come to the Alligator Farm for the novelty of seeing some big, well-fed gators (and an occasional croc as well). Most people don't know that this time of year, the farm has a world class rookery of wading birds. Virtually every species will come through there and many nest. The birds like the relative safety of the farm because the alligators keep the predators away from their nests. At any rate, here's what we saw:

Friday, April 18, 2008

"A FortBragg soldier remained in critical condition Sunday night from being shot in the neck by robbers after leaving a Bragg Boulevard nightclub, authorities say.

Spc. Sergio A. Sanchez, 22, was shot around 3 a.m. at Blue Street and Washington Drive. Authorities believe he may have stumbled across a group of five or six men who were in the process of robbing other people on the street.

The Police Department would not release additional details of the investigation late Sunday.

“We don’t have anything else,” a police watch commander said. “The police report has not been released yet because it’s still being investigated.”

Sanchez is a member of the 82nd Airborne Division’s 2nd Brigade Combat Team, said Maj. Tom Earnhardt, a spokesman for the division. Sanchez had returned from a deployment to Iraq about 45 days ago.

Earnhardt said Sanchez was serving as the designated driver for his friends Friday night and had stepped outside the club to make a phone call. “At that time, he was attacked, resulting in a gunshot wound to him,” Earnhardt said.

“The chain of command of the division is heartsick over what happened here,” Earnhardt said. “We wish we could make some sense over what appears to us a senseless act. By all indications, we had a paratrooper who was doing the right thing for his friends.”

Sanchez was treated at the trauma center at CapeFearValleyMedicalCenter before being transferred to UNC Hospitals in Chapel Hill, where he underwent surgery. . . "

I have been following the Observer all week and have not seen a follow up. The 2nd Brigade had been in and around Baghdad since January 2007.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

SPC Jeremiah C. Hughes came home to Jacksonville yesterday. But not as his family ever wanted or dreamed of. SPC Hughes died April 9 in Balad, one of 19 U.S. service members who died last week. Hughes, 26, was a member of the 21st Infantry Regiment, 25th Infantry Division out of Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. He was, by all accounts, an extraordinary young man.

On Monday, Dan McCarthy, the City of Jacksonville's military liaison, put out an e-mail blast to the military community asking them to turn out for his arrival at Jacksonville Naval Air Station at 2:53 p.m. I have felt guilty about not showing up for some of these ceremonies in the past given what the community has done for us. But my schedule is generally too tightly wound to undo on short notice. I had a national conference call at 3 p.m. It wasn't going to work.

It was a very unusual day in North Florida yesterday. A cold front passed through and temperatures hovered in the 50s. An unfriendly wind blew out of the north at 20 mph with a occasional gusts to 35 mph. As I sat in my office, a rain squall slogged in off the ocean and the temperature dropped to 51 degrees. . . in Florida. . . in April. It was warmer in Minneapolis yesterday.

As the conference call progressed, I watched the minutes pass on my computer clock. I thought: The funeral home where SPC Hughes is headed is in Jacksonville Beach, a couple of miles from my office. I am on my cell phone. Maybe I can pay my respects there.

So I trundled into my truck and headed down beach to the funeral home. The squall passed and the skies began to clear and the temperature warmed to 61 degrees. I pulled into the H&R Block office parking lot across the street from the funeral home. It was Tax Day and the lot was crowded. I was lucky to find a spot.

The conference call progressed and ended after 4 p.m. At 4:15 p.m., I figured I had made a mistake. It wouldn't have been the first time I have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I headed south down 3rd Street toward my home. At Butler Blvd., the Jacksonville Sheriff Office motorcycle honor guard was blocking north bound traffic at the exit ramp. The procession was heading to the Beach as planned.

I circled back but got stuck in the traffic about four blocks from the funeral home as the honor guard moved the procession on to 39th Street. Impatient drivers began making U-turns through the medians grumbling about the tie up. Must be a wreck or something.

I couldn't even make it to my church parking lot which was a block away from the funeral home. As I passed the home, the honor guard was at present arms. It looked as if there were at least 40 members of the Patriot Guard there as well.

As Dan McCarthy from the city will tell you, if nothing else, Jacksonville will turn out for its returning service men and women under the best or worst of circumstances. And based on this morning's news coverage in The Florida Times-Union, yesterday was no different.

But I had missed it. I drove by, gave a short salute and a silent prayer.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

For those who keep prayer lists, please add LCPL Robert T. George, a Marine reservist now on duty in Iraq near the Syrian border. We've known Tommy since he was born and are still good friends with his parents, even though they are in Virginia and we are in Florida.

"The simple explanation for why we shun the war is that it has gone so badly. But another answer was provided in the hearings by Senator George Voinovich of Ohio, one of the growing number of Republican lawmakers who no longer bothers to hide his exasperation. He put his finger on the collective sense of shame (not to be confused with collective guilt) that has attended America’s Iraq project.

“The truth of the matter,” Mr. Voinovich said, is that “we haven’t sacrificed one darn bit in this war, not one. Never been asked to pay for a dime, except for the people that we lost.”

This is how the war planners wanted it, of course. No new taxes, no draft, no photos of coffins, no inconveniences that might compel voters to ask tough questions. This strategy would have worked if the war had been the promised cakewalk. But now it has backfired. A home front that has not been asked to invest directly in a war, that has subcontracted it to a relatively small group of volunteers, can hardly be expected to feel it has a stake in the outcome five stalemated years on."

Saturday, April 12, 2008

SPC Mark has been home from Baghdad for about five months. For 15 months, we were anxiety ridden knowing that he was in one of the most dangerous places in the world.

On Thursday night, our oldest son Mike was driving home having worked on a yard project for his mother at our house. He was heading west on Butler Blvd., the main east-west limited access highway from the Beaches to Jacksonville. He was in his 1999 silver Ford Contour SVT, heading toward the entrance to I-95 North.

A black Mercedes, going about 90 mph witnesses say, rear-ended him. His car did a NASCAR-like 360 crashing into a concrete barrier before coming to a stop. The Mercedes kept going for about a half-mile before it stopped. The driver, a woman, fled the scene on foot.

After a five-hour stay in the emergency room, Mike was released with a sore neck and back, a collection of bruises that have yet to blossom, and a busted up finger. The impact of the collision was so hard the radio flew out of the dashboard and the deploying air bags blew the lenses out of his glasses.

All-in-all, we are very, very lucky that he is alive. The SVT has a very low center of gravity for handling and rather than flip, it spun. The car saved his life. Had he been in any of the other family vehicles, we would be planning a funeral this morning.

Unfortunately for the poor little SVT, it's destined for the salvage yard. Only 5,000 of them were made and some day it would have been a collector's item. It's why we hung on to it for nearly 10 years.

The Mercedes, a high sport model, looks to be totaled as well. Still haven't heard about the driver although the police said at the scene that she had a DUI and a suspended license.

We all know where the most dangerous cities in the world are. Sometimes we have to remind ourselves that our own cities can be just as dangerous.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Bravo Company held it's annual picnic Friday at Ft. Bragg. I received the flier in March and made tentative plans to attend. Free food and beer and team activities like basketball, volleyball, poker tournament and softball. Sounded like a lot of fun.

Unfortunately work intruded and I wasn't able to go.

So I talked with Mark yesterday and asked him in which activity did he participate.

“Yeah, surprised the hell out of me. But listen I'm onCQ and I've got some bad news. The call out roster hasbeen initiated and they're calling everyone back fromleave early.”

“You're fucking kidding me.”

“No man, I wish I was.”

“At least they waited until the day after Christmas.”

“Yeah right. Well, I gotta let you go man. I'll see youwhen you get in.”

“Alright bro, I'll see you soon. Peace.”

I closed the phone and my arm slumped down off the couch. I let thephone drop from my hand on to the floor. Sat theremotionless, thoughtless. Mom was in the other roomand wanted the news that she probably already knew.With a sigh, I broke the news. Picked myself up off thecouch and headed for the shower. It was the day afterChristmas, nine days since I left Fort Bragg on leave,and about 20 days since I landed at Pope Air ForceBase from Iraq.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I had survived my first tour in Iraq despite havingkicked doors in every hot spot in country. . . every badneighborhood that you hear about on the news . . .from theSunni Triangle of Death to Tikrit to Ramadi.

We landed at Pope to welcome home banners, joyful andcheering family members, and the 82nd band playing the82nd song. Some officers spoke and told us “welcome home”and “good job” and “enjoy yourself you earned it.”

But it was to be short lived.

For some time now the President and some generals were putting together aplan to escalate the war. . . a plan they called a “surge” that would flood the streets of Baghdad ina desperate attempt to secure the Iraqi capital. Being“AMERICA’S STRATEGIC RESPONSE FORCE,” we were the obviouschoice to spearhead the surge. We specialize inrapid deployments and can get out much faster thanmost of the Army.

The day before the President went before the nation toannounce the plan, we were called into work. My firstsergeant came out and from the look on his face andthe commander's face, we knew it was bad news. Therehad been whispers that we were going back but no onebelieved them.

“Bring it in men and sit down.” He preceded to readthe warning order that basically spelled out that wewere to begin preparations to deploy some time aroundthe 1st of January. Not believing my ears, I scannedthe room and every face was blank. No emotion. itreally felt surreal.

The hardest part was passing off the news and listening to my mother cry on the otherside of the phone. They decided to send us home for14 days of leave before we actually startedpreparations. Really didn't have much to do. All ourequipment and gear never left Iraq. I went home withweight on my shoulders that was nearly unbearable. Christmasthat year was a somber affair.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I had 48 hours to report back to Bragg. I turned theshower on and climbed in. Sat in the tub and stared atthe drain. I got in the shower because I didn't wantmy family to hear me cry. It was a strange feeling.shedding a tear. Two tears and a sniffle, I soldieredup and started packing my bags. Hugged my parents anddrove away.